“I’m here, you see,” he said hoarsely.  “There’s no doubt about me now.”

“Got a bad cold, eh?” replied the other, as cheerfully as he could.

“Yes, a cold.  Always have a cold.  Would you mind reaching me the kettle?”

He poured out some brandy from a bottle which stood on the floor, and mixed it with a little hot water.  Gammon the while observed him with much curiosity.  In five years or a little more he had become an old and feeble man; his thin hair was all but completely grey, his flesh had wasted and discoloured, his hand trembled, his breath came with difficulty.  Present illness accounted perhaps for the latter symptoms; but, from that glimpse of him in Norton Folgate, Gammon had known that he was much aged and shaken.  Hat, overcoat, and muffler had partly disguised what was now evident.  He spoke with the accent of an educated man, and in the tone of one whom nature has endowed with amiable qualities.  The bottle beside him seemed to explain certain peculiarities of his manner.  When he had drunk thirstily he raised himself to a sitting posture, and nodded to his visitor an invitation to take a chair.

“I’m here, you see, Gammon.  Here at last.”

“Why did you come?”

“Why?—­ah, why indeed!”

Having sighed out this ejaculation he seemed to grow absent, to forget that he was not alone.  A violent cough shook him into wakefulness again; he stared at Gammon with red eyes full of pain and fear, and said thickly: 

“Are you an honest man—­you?

“Well, I hope so; try to be.”

“What’s his name?  You know him, don’t you?”

“Do you mean Greenacre?” asked Gammon, feeling very uncomfortable, for the man before him looked like one who struggles for his last breath.

“Greenacre, yes.  What has he told you about me?”

Gammon answered with the simple truth; the situation alarmed him, and he would have nothing more to do with conspiracy in such a case.  He could not feel sure that his explanations were followed and understood; now and then the bloodshot eyes turned blankly to him as if in a drunken dream; but in the end he saw a look of satisfaction.

“You’re an honest man, aren’t you?  We used to know each other, you know when.  My wife likes you, doesn’t she?”

“We’ve always been friends, of course,” Gammon replied.

“Would you mind giving me the kettle?” He mixed another glass of brandy, spilling a great deal in the process.  “I don’t offer you any, Greenacre, it’s medicine; I take it as such.  One doesn’t offer one’s friends a glass of medicine, you know, Greenacre.”

“My name is Gammon.”

“What am I thinking about!  There was something I wanted to ask you.  Yes, of course.  Does she know?”

“You mean does your wife know who you really are?” said Gammon in a cautious voice.

“Haven’t you told her?”

“Not yet.”